


Romance, Schromance

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Ed's a UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR, Fluff, I have no excuses, M/M, Romantic Fluff, honestly this is just a big pile of schmoop, keeping romance alive the royed way, my favourite, valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6014485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who says romance is dead? Not Roy, that's for certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance, Schromance

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day to everyone who celebrates it!!!! if you don't, hope you had a stellar day anyway !!! i havent posted anything in So Long so i thought i'd stepup my game for vday...unfortunately im kinda cheating bc over here it's 1:05 am on monday the 15th so its. not even vday anymore. god damn it.   
> anyway that's fine bc im sure in some timezones it's still the 14th!! hooray. saved again by the laws of time. 
> 
> today me and my qp went to the cinema to go see deadpool, but when we got there it was completely sold out. so we chose the next best thing. alvin and the chipmunks: road chip. absolute cinematic GENIUS, don;t let anyone tell you otherwise!!!
> 
> okay pls enjoy this <33 there's more great(er) shit coming soon!!! real soon!!!! get hype!!!! ;u;

 

Ed’s running late- he only just got out of his last lecture at the university because the kids wouldn’t stop asking _questions_ \- not all of them were, like, _completely_ stupid and inane queries, but _still._ It’s Valentine’s Day. And Roy’s waiting on him.

His briefcase is stuffed full of papers on the geometrical analysis of transmutation circles, and his coat is flapping wildly behind him as he runs, but run he _does_ , sprinting like a bat out of the hell that is Central University, and he’s skidding down the front steps, startling an elderly professor who may or may not be Ed’s current supervisor-

And nearly sprints straight into Havoc, standing on the curb by the car, smoking.

“Oh, hey, Boss,” he says, unfazed. That’s fair; Ed guesses he’s had enough time to get used to him appearing out of fucking nowhere in a hell of a hurry.

“Hey, Havoc,” he says, “sorry- I gotta-,”

“No worries,” says Havoc, “the General sent me to pick you up.”

…Huh.

Ed manages to steady his balance without pinwheeling his arms like a five year old trying to stand up on a carousel. Just.

“Oh,” he says, intelligently. “Right. Cool.”

Havoc nods, finishing his cigarette and leaning down to stub it out on the bottom of his shoe. He flicks it into the gutter and Ed bites his tongue to refrain from making any smartass remarks about pollution and waterborne diseases.

“How’d he know I was gonna be late?” Ed asks, as havoc opens the door for him and he tosses his bag in first and clambers in afterwards. Havoc shrugs, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“No clue, Boss. He just said to come get you, and then he rushed off.” He turns round in his seat to leer at Ed as he pulls onto the road. “You guys goin’ on a hot date tonight, then?” he wiggles his eyebrows, and Ed is reminded of all the reasons why he’s glad he quit the military.

“No,” he says, scowling, “and neither are you.”

“Ouch, boss, “says Havoc, all-too cheerfully, turning back to the road, “maybe I prefer the single life.”

“Three years of seeing you whine about your lack of game suggests otherwise,” Ed replies, and Havoc raises his eyebrows at him in the rearview mirror.

“You know, you sound _exactly_ like the General when you say things like that,” he says, “It’ kind of creepy.”

“How about you watch the fuckin’ road before we _crash_ and _die_ ,”, Ed snaps at him. Havoc grins.

“Sure, Boss,” he says, “Wouldn’t want you to be late for your date on account of having crashed and died, after all.”

Ed forgoes a snappy retort in favour of folding his arms across his chest and staring pointedly out of the window, watching buildings and recruits in blue uniforms flash by in the streets as they drive.   
He doesn’t miss it, the military. He’s so, so fucking glad he got out before shit went bad again, and he doesn’t miss it.   
what he does miss, sometimes, though, is the camaraderie, the sheer sense of _belonging_ that you only really saw in the office, Havoc and Breda cracking jokes and trying to avoid Hawkeye; Falman’s dry humour, the _gambling_ \- at one point they had betting pools running on completely stupid shit, like whether the next person to walk past the door would be carrying a clipboard, or whether Feury would drop his pen again before the hour was up.   
That’s what he misses, sometimes. Friendship, kind of, except not really, because he was just some kid, and they took him in and made him one of their own.

And he really should find a way to say thank you for that. Someday, he will. He’ll add it to the list.

 

 

When he gets back to their house- it’s kind of medium-sized; Roy got it for free because of his high status in the military, and it’s become something sort of like home to Ed, even though his true home will always be wherever Al is (currently, in Xing studying medical alkahestry and probably charming his way into Ling’s high court. Overachiever)- he slams the door behind him- oops, another habit he still hasn’t grown out of- and locks it, because the paparazzi are becoming sneakier and more invasive every second and Ed’ll be damned even more than he already is before he lets them into their _home_.

The lights are on in the kitchen, and something smells fucking _amazing_. God damn it Roy; how’s Ed supposed to think of mean things to say when everything the bastard does is perfect?

“Is that you, love?” Roy calls from the direction of the living room. Ed pauses in toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘love’,” he says in reply, “if you’re talking about the abstract concept of capital-L Love itself, then I guess that’s pretty subjective.”

“And what if I mean the light of my life, my reason for being, the sole object of my worship?” says Roy, coming out of the living room, and he’s wearing his stupid cheesy I-love-you-darling grin and Ed is so, so fucking lucky to have him.

“I dunno,” he says, “Didn’t realise you were _that_ passionate about miniskirts.”

Roy groans, tipping his head back and moving forwards to reach out his hands to Ed, closing his eyes. In the mood-lighting that Roy has created using, Ed can now see through the kitchen door, lots and lots of flickering candles, everything is a hell of a lot more sultry and soft and….Valentines-y.

“You do realise, don’t you,” Roy murmurs, “that the miniskirt thing was just a desperate last-ditch attempt at ingraining my womanizing attitude into headquarters so I would be able to use my information network more freely, right?”

Roy is wearing his shirt untucked and rumpled. It’s distractingly attractive. He tugs Ed closer and spins him around; Ed can feel himself getting carried away and he makes a conscious effort not to giggle like a child.

“Well, duh,” says Ed, “it was really, really un-subtle.”

“Coming from you, the most subtle being in this universe, that means a lot,” Roy tells him, and waltzes him slowly into the kitchen. “Behold, your feast.”

“ _Roy_.”

Ed makes a last effort to wriggle free out of Roy’s dancing death-grip, and then decides…you know. It’s Valentine’s day. And it’s kind of- nice. Being held. Being _safe_. And Roy smells really, _really_ good.

Not as good as the food, though.

That’s pretty goddamn spectacular.

“Wha- holy _shit_ , Roy, how much did this _cost?”_

Roy waves a hand dismissively, and he has this grin tugging at the corners of his mouth and his whole face is just- _lit up_ , and he’s so fucking happy and it makes Ed so _fucking_ happy to see him like this.

These past few weeks have been hell- there are only a few weeks left until preliminary elections start and Roy’s been juggling overtime and military duties and his campaign and the national press like a madman. Hawkeye even told him to ‘take a day off, Sir, you’re overworking yourself,” which is something that hasn’t happened in the history of _ever_ , so Ed knows that it’s getting pretty fucking serious.

So it’s just- nice. Nice, and really, really fucking wonderful, to see Roy get to relax, and smile, and see all the stress sort of- fade, for a while. Even if it’s not entirely gone. Even if it’s still there, in the background, waiting like some looming asshole closet-monster ready to jump out and strangle Roy with paperwork the second he gets back to work.

It’s nice.

And the food, too, is awesome.

It’s golden curry and steaming white rice and flatbreads and shit-tons of condiments that Ed probably hasn’t even heard of, and everything is so interestingly coloured and it smells fucking _tantalising._

Roy relinquishes his grip and Ed’s ass is on the seat and he’s ready to dig the fuck in before Roy’s even pulled out his chair.

He laughs.

“What?” Ed scowls, brandishing his fork, “it looks awesome. Shut up.”

Roy shakes his head, sitting down all refined and shit like a civilised person, which Ed has always admired about him- you know, the whole air of normality thing he has going on, the charming way he moves that fools everyone in the room into thinking he’s a super serious classy motherfucker, when in reality he is all of that _plus_ a massive fucking dweeb.

It’s kind of lame. Ed loves him.

He pauses a second before he starts heaping mounds of curry onto his plate to just- catch Roy’s eyes. Let him know that he means it when he says,

“For real, Roy. Thanks. This is- yeah.”

Ed’s never been too good with words, but Roy understands. That’s another reason why he loves him. Roy smiles, softer, and nods.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he says, by way of reply, and Ed manages to get an eye roll in before devoting himself and his attention to the task at hand.

 

***

 

After the food, there’s wine. Ed should’ve guessed. It’s some uber-expensive shit with a name Ed can’t pronounce but Roy _can_ , and does, several times, just because he’s secretly a gigantic show off with a penchant for making difficult shit look easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

Whatever the name is, it tastes pretty damn great, and Ed eyes Roy suspiciously once they’ve worked their way through half the bottle.

“Are you tryin’ to get me drunk?” he asks, and Roy tilts the bottle at him like a pointer.

“What do you mean, ‘trying’?” he asks. Ed flips him off.

“Fuck you. This is some good shit.”

“Thank you. Havoc recommended it, actually.”

“That conniving asshole,” says Ed, but fondly, because Havoc is a good man, and a good friend, and he _does_ have a good taste in alcohol. Most of the time. “You’re in it together.”

“It amazes me, the way you manage to produce conspiracy theories out of thin air,” says Roy, and Ed noticed that the old radio sitting on the mantelpiece in the living room is on, and some slow and shadowy blues number is emanating from it like strings of caramel, but in soundwave form.

Roy is running his hands slowly over the ridges in the automail, a habit he’s picked up over their time together. It feels _really_ good; there’s something about having less pressure sensitivity that makes the sensation more uncontrolled, spread-put, almost.

“How was your day?” Roy asks, stacking the dishes on the side, and Ed sighs, leaning against him and enjoying leeching off of his body heat.

“Damn kids kept asking questions,” he mutters, a little muffled by his face pressed into Roy’s shoulder, fully aware that these ‘kids’ are all mostly taller than him and that if Roy even _tries_ to mention it he’s getting silent treatment for a week.

Roy just laughs again, finishing with the dishes and turning to wrap his arms around Ed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?” He asks, and Ed snorts.

“God, I don’t fucking know. I guess. Sometimes they ask good shit, like ‘hey, professor, what would happen if you were to design your own set of alchemical symbols, each one complete and pertaining to a specific element or component of the transmutation; would it still work?” and then I can tell them that the only way to know for sure is if they go home and fucking do it themselves. But mostly they’re just asking me what it’s like to be the Fullmetal alchemist, and it’s fucking annoying.”

He looks up, aware that Roy is being quiet, and finds him looking at him with an odd expression on his face.

“What?” he asks, and Roy shakes his head a little, smiles.

“Nothing. It’s just- it’s fascinating, listening to you talk about your subject like that. I can’t imagine you having to deal with all those teenagers, though. Perhaps the reason you resent it is because it reminds you of when you, too, were a loud and annoying-,”

Ed elbows him in the ribs, and he makes a pained sort of chuckling noise.

“Serves you right,” he says, “jeez, you make me sound so _old._ Are we getting old?”

“We’ve settled down,” says Roy, musingly, winding his arms tighter around Ed’s waist, beginning to sway, slowly, in time to the music, “we’re having romantic candlelit dinners in our shared kitchen. We’re doing the dishes together. It’s all really embarrassingly domestic, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, god,” says Ed, “soon you’ll be talking about getting a _dog_ or some shit. Don’t you fucking dare,” he adds, warningly; Roy has got that look in his eyes that says, _maybe a dog isn’t a bad idea, love_ , and Ed knows that Roy knows that all he has to do is kiss Ed brain meltingly-slowly for a few minutes and he’ll start thinking that getting a dog is the best idea anyone’s had yet.

Roy sighs feelingly. “The sacrifices I make,” he says sadly, and Ed smacks his arm.

“You’re such a bastard,” he tells him, “remind me why the fuck I even like you?”

Roy -smiles. “Well, if you _insist_ ,” he murmurs, and god, Ed hadn’t even _meant_ to start this yet, but he’s really got no complaints.

Slowly, so slowly, Roy tilts his chin upwards with two fingers; Ed licks his lips without noticing he’s doing it- they’re so close he can _taste_ it… and then Roy’s lips on his, and Ed doesn’t give a _fuck_ about frustrating university students, or getting old, because when Roy kisses him like this he doesn’t have the presence of mind to care about anything at all, really.

They’re so good.

It sounds strange, _feels_ strange to be thinking it, but it’s true. They are. This whole- thing, this routine, this _life_ that they’ve built for themselves with stupid scented candles and undulating jazz music and great food and trying to weave between their respective jobs to find time to be together- it’s so, so _good_.

It’s not perfect, not yet, but then, in Ed’s experience, thing’s rarely are. And it doesn’t _have_ to be perfect for him to have zero fucking regrets. Ten out of ten, he would repeat this whole goddamned cycle of misery and pain and loss and fleeting hope and blood, just to get back to this moment.

The thought of that kind of scares him.

But then he remembers that Roy feels exactly the fucking same, and he’s not scared anymore. He’s just- happy. For the first time in way too fucking long, he’s happy.

 

 

Upstairs, then, muffled breathing and pausing to press against the walls of the stairwell, kissing and trailing touches and faint laughter; the bedroom door is open already and Ed looks in…

Oh, _god,_ no.

“Roy,” he says, halting in the doorway, and Roy is _smiling,_ even in the dim light of the upstairs, Ed _knows_ he’s fucking smiling and it’s not _funny- “_ what the fuck is this?”

Roy’s smile widens. He pushes the door open a little wider.

“Surprise?”

Ed shoves him into the room and kicks the door closed behind them.

“ _Rose petals_ ,” he says, “fucking _really_? You’re such a _sap_ -,”

And the bed is shiny new silk sheets that Ed _knows_ weren’t there before, and more fucking candles- really, Roy may be taking this ‘flame alchemist’ thing a little too far because they might both be fairly well-rounded and gifted alchemists but come _on_. Fire risk. Health hazards. All that shit.

And the rose petals, the damn rose petals scattered all artistically over the sheets and the floor, red and pink and white and smelling really incredibly strongly- Roy’s laughing, now; he can’t contain it and his poker face is collapsing. Ed wants to hit him, but he also wants to kiss him, because his mouth is making this deliciously crooked shape that Ed wants to kind of lick, just to _see_ \- no. Shut up, brain, this is a breach of the _law_ which Ed has set down in stone: no overly sappy shit, because he can’t _take_ it; it’s too much, he goes all red and then Roy makes a speech about how wonderful he is and everything dissolves into emotionally charged sex and Ed telling him to shut the fuck up a lot.

“Stop _laughing_ ,” Ed says, “this is fucking ridiculous, Roy, I hate you so much-,”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Roy tells him, and catches Ed’s hands in his. “I love you so much. And I bought new sheets especially. They’re really very comfortable, see?”

Fine, the sheets are pretty fucking nice. Ed has to concede this point, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Roy pushes him gently down onto the bed, and Ed takes this chance to brush as many rose petals as he can onto the floor.

“I’m still mad,” he says, as Roy leans over him, knees either side of Ed’s waist, still smiling that ridiculous smile.

“But it’s so _romantic,”_ Roy says.

“Fuck romance,” says Ed.

“Considering that romance is not a physical object,” says Roy, “I doubt it would very straightforward, fucking it. However, with perseverance and determination, I’m sure we could make a fine go of it, all the same.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Ed says, and damn it, he’s laughing now, Roy’s breath ghosting his neck, his jawline, fingers working at the buttons on Ed’s shirt. Even the rose petals can’t distract from what Roy- all of Roy, not just one specific part, not just the way he kisses or the way his hands slide up over Ed’s abs, or the way he smiles, or the way his hair kind of falls in his eyes a little from this angle; _all of him_ \- does to him.

Rather than reply, Roy kisses him again, and Ed sighs into his mouth. God. Romance, schromance. He presses his palms to Roy’s collarbones, skating them over the skin revealed by his slightly-open shirt.

“Hurry up,” he whispers, “It’s fucking cold.”

Roy smiles, huffs a half-laugh into Ed’s skin.

“I suppose we’ll have to think of a way to warm ourselves up, then, won’t we?”

 

 


End file.
